On my birthday I woke up to a familiar noise. The snow shovel scraping on the frozen ground made me forget where I was. It wasn’t my dad shoveling out a Pontiac station wagon, but a Mongolian clearing the way for a Russian jeep. It was a strange time to forget that I’m in Mongolia, because only recently, I think, I’ve settled on the idea that I’m home here. With that settling has come a slow downward swing in my mood.
The euphoria of the first few months in country has slowly worn off as my work and daily life has become more routine. This is a common feeling when living abroad. I’ve been told that my mood will vary from religious-experience highs to huddled-up-in-sleeping-bag lows. The problem at the moment is understanding when I’m experiencing a huddled-up-in-sleeping-bag low, and when I’m huddled in my sleeping bag simply because I can’t bear to stand in my freezing apartment. I guess one is a subset of the other.
Of course, I use the word "routine" loosely. I can still count on jarring cultural moments. For instance, the Russian teacher at my school recently interrupted my class to ask if I would write an English composition for his sister who was preparing for an English competition. After several minutes he couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t be party to cheating, and why I wouldn’t do two hours worth of cheating on one hour’s notice. Also, when a drunk man steals my mitten from off my hand in the middle of a cold night, I tend to stop putting my life in the context of a "routine". At least I was close to home.


We recently celebrated Thanksgiving. We all invited Mongolians from our work to join us. We were puzzled as, slowly, many of the Mongolians we had invited cancelled on us. Our attendance dwindled from an expected 14 to 11. The six Peace Corps volunteers, two German volunteers, and three Mongolian work counterparts. We were puzzled until we remembered that it was Mongolia’s independence day. Celebrating an American holiday on a Mongolian holiday scores a 3 out of 10 on cultural sensitivity if you are keeping track. A 1 out of 10 is telling a Mongolian that you prefer ancient Rome to the Empire of Genghis Khan, and then adding that you think milk and mutton suck.
Despite the cultural blunder, the meal was nice and enjoyed by all. We had to explain that while we ate the "traditional amount" of food, the "traditional type" of food was difficult to prepare in these parts. We had one box of stuffing my parents sent from America and mashed potatoes, but from there, the menu became somewhat eclectic. A nice chili was present, a meat and potatoes dish, tuna salad, egg casserole, and an unexpected pineapple souffle.
The only turkey in Mongolia was at the U.S. Embassy in Ulaanbaatar, and I wasn’t lucky enough to attend that party, though many volunteers were. I began considering our poultry options. There seemed to be two. Once I heard a chicken in town. I thought about tracking it down, but then remembered that, in Mongolia, if it looks like a chicken, and sounds like a chicken, it’s probably something else. I rested my Thanksgiving dreams on the flapping wings of the nightmare crows that shriek here in great numbers. I planned to crouch on the balcony with my axe until one of them landed on my woodpile, when we would pit, once and for all, axe against talon, for Thanksgiving glory. Then I heard there would be mashed potatoes and decided that would be enough.

Am I Not a Man? Can I Not Clean My Own House?

Any minute two of my students will knock at my door. They are coming to clean my house and I am terrified. I spent the past 45 minutes feverishly cleaning up my place trying to make it look like I hadn’t cleaned anything. It was ridiculous. I moved most of the clothes, books, and miscellany from the extra bed, but left a few school books and a teacup to maintain the illusion that I hadn’t cleaned. I didn’t sweep the floor, except in Mama’s (my cat) room, because she has made the entire entryway her litterbox. I finally unpacked all of the packages that I had gotten from the states in the past month. They’ll still have enough work to make an evening of it.
I don’t know how this happened. My school director visits my house often, and during one of her visits I was explaining to her that this is the way the average young man lives in America. There is a system in the madness. I know that my cell phone is under the stocking hat, that the guitar pick is somewhere near the incense, and my coffee cup is behind the bag of sugar. She either didn’t buy any of this, or didn’t like the idea of it and began insisting that some of our students come clean my house for me. Eventually I agreed and here I am, sitting on the bed ashamed of myself.
I’m pleased now that it’s done. They did an incredible job. They seemed to have a good time doing it. The way I live is hilarious to them. They would burst out laughing, then call me into the room where they were working. "Do you need this?" A can of tomato paste and a jar of blueberry jam, both topped with a thick layer of mold. "No, I don’t need them anymore." This followed by another bout of laughter.
They became less amused when they got to my bed. I sleep with my bed against the stove wall, which gets hot after the fire’s been lit for a while. Lately I’ve been making such blazing fires that one evening, the wall charred the parts of my blanket that were touching it. "Don’t worry. There was no fire, only smoke." They shook their heads in what I think was dismay.
I can’t think of a relationship I’ve had in the past that compares with the relationship I have with my students. I’m their teacher and they treat me with a lot of respect, but, as above, I’m a careless foreigner who doesn’t seem to be able to care for himself. So, I’m like their little baby boy. I was sick and tired last week, and one of the other volunteer said she heard my students discussing my well-being at length.
It’s so strange and fantastic. We communicate nothing complicated with one another, because neither of us can communicate complex thoughts in the other’s language. Yet, these girls and women are the some of the most important people in my life right now. Without them reminding me to wear my warm clothes, I would be walking around Mongolia wondering why I am so cold. If they weren’t willing to share their impressive housekeeping skills, I’d be sleeping on piles of books and using a shoe box as a dining table.



Excuse Me Jesus, Do You Have a Cigar?

I had no idea my students would get so excited about Halloween. I first mentioned to them that all of the Peace Corps volunteers in town would be going out to the club in costume on the Friday after the holiday. We told them they should all come with us to celebrate and they agreed. Sometime after this they learned about "trick or treating" and the Halloween madness began.
I invited them to come to my house for candy and I got a few of the other volunteers to do the same. I had no idea what ridiculous heights trick or treating would reach. It was our intention to treat them with the best candies Mongolia could offer, but they had treats sweeter than Russian cookies in store for us. For each of our houses they had prepared a separate, vaguely Halloween related drama.
At my house, Harry Potter and his friends conjured ghosts by candlelight. Elvis Presley sang a popular Mongolian song. Charlie Chaplin didn’t say anything, of course, but he gave a very elegant bow to all of the guests in my house before he left. When Hitler came, Harry Potter and his friends stood at attention. Hitler was more polite than I imagined. "Guttentag. Thank you for inviting me to your Halloween party."
At David’s house we had a dance party with the witches and the ghosts. Dance pairs included an Arabian Shah and Harry Potter, Jesus and Hitler, and Snow White and a dwarf. At Jenny’s, a creepy witch drugged Snow White with "special candy". This play ended abruptly, with Snow White passed out and the witch delivering a cryptic message. "Now you will only be mine."
We sat in on a surreal passion play at Jess’s house. Jesus was crucified against the wall of Jess’s ger. His wife and mother were with him. Soon an Arabian Shah entered.
"Jesus, give me one hundred wives," he demanded.
"I’m sorry, I only have two wives," Jesus replied as his mother offered him a drink of water.
Next, a pirate took the stage.
"Jesus, do you have a cigar?" asked the pirate.
"No, you should go to Thomas’s house. Ask him how much they cost and come back here," said Jesus.
This is an inside joke. Thomas is a German who lives in town. Apparently it is widely known that he smokes large cigars.
Finally a witch approached Jesus.
"There are many cars and motorcycles that are faster than my broomstick. Jesus, can you attach my broomstick to the electricity to make it faster?" she wondered.
"I’m sorry," replied Jesus, "the electricity won’t be back on until 8 p.m."
This is another inside joke. The electricity here is awful. It goes on and off at new and exciting times everyday. Not even Jesus can fix it.
They had me in tears and I can’t imagine ever having a better Halloween than this. Halloween is a good time at home, but I don’t recall a fraction of the excitement that last night carried with it. My students only got a small handful of candy the whole evening. Children in America would cry tears of rage if this were the case for them and that is unacceptable. Furthermore, I don’t believe I will ever again see Hitler walking next to a ghost, or Jesus on the arm of a clown. When I get home, "Trick or Treat", is not going to cut it. I demand entertainment and you should, too.
Oh, you’re Superman? How cute. But if you want candy, you better come back with a telephone booth and a change of clothes.